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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23405890">you'll never know the trouble they give us</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukeboxgraduate/pseuds/jukeboxgraduate'>jukeboxgraduate</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, takes place in chapter 3 with no major spoilers, trauma i guess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:08:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,626</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23405890</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukeboxgraduate/pseuds/jukeboxgraduate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John dreams about snarling and yellow teeth at his tent, his own hands reaching out for Jack who is just out of reach, just barely.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you'll never know the trouble they give us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i'm settled in with my wip folder for a while and this has been sitting there for ages so yaknow. here it is. the working title was "the d in ptsd stands for dog."</p><p>shoutout to mike.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Jack exclaims something about a dog and Arthur turns to see a scraggly grey dog wagging its tail and enthusiastically licking Jack's hands. Arthur, working burrs out of his horse's mane, ducks his head and smiles to himself as Jack laughs, falling to his knees while the dog licks his face. Dutch rises from his seat at the fire to see the dog, chuckling and scratching the dog's ears. He talks to Jack gently about the dog and Jack, despite his excitement, listens to Dutch attentively. </p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>    Dutch suggests naming the dog Cain. Arthur stifles a laugh, looks up from his horse and lifts his head to catch John’s eye where he sits at the fire, seeking like an instinct to exchange an eye roll at the drama of Dutch’s naming ceremony. But John doesn’t meet Arthur’s eyes, instead standing with his lips between his teeth, watching Jack and newly-named Cain. He gets up from his seat and walks over, watching with his arms crossed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Marston,” Arthur whispers sharply. John gives him a glance but returns to Jack. Cain, tail wagging, rears up on his back legs and drops his paws on Jack’s shoulders, licking his face, to Jack’s delight. John steps forward quickly, a panic in his gait that sets Arthur after him. John pulls Jack backward and steps between the boy and the dog. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Marston!” Arthur pulls at John’s elbow just as John lifts a knee to push the dog away. “John.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John topples into Arthur with the force of Arthur’s tug at his arm. Jack stares, wide eyed and confused. Cain sits, tail still, head turned away. John shoves at Arthur and curses.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Jack - “ John begins, but Arthur tugs him back again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “You’re alright, Jack,” Arthur says, voice light, gripping John too hard by the elbow. “Why don’t you find the dog some food? He must be hungry. Just don’t let him jump on you like that, alright? It’s bad manners for a dog to jump on folks." </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Jack nods, saying nothing. He turns to Cain and gently leads him away. Arthur doesn’t let go of John’s arm. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “What are you doing?” John asks. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “What are <em>you</em> doing, Marston?” Arthur asks quietly, still holding onto his arm. John turns his face toward him but looks past him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “I...” John says, blinking hard. His own hand digs into Arthur’s arm now. “I didn’t want him to get hurt.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “He wasn’t gonna get hurt, the dog was just playing.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "Why are you so concerned?" John trails off. He rubs a hand over his mouth in thought, wincing as his fingers brush the still-healing scars on his cheek and jaw. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “John,” Arthur says softly, “he’s just a dog. He didn’t do nothing.” John is still looking past Arthur, his eyes glassy in the midmorning sun.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Can you stay out of this?" </p>
</div><div>
  <p>   “No. Come on,” Arthur says, leading John to the relative privacy of the space between the water and the edge of the circle of tents. “You’ve gotta stay calm, John. Or Jack is gonna think there’s something to be scared of.” Arthur puts an arm around John's shoulders and pushes him to sit on the ground. The grass is warm from the sun and the slight dampness threatens to seep through Arthur's pants, but he sits down anyway - everything is damp all the time as it is, the humidity soaking through everything from his clothes to his lungs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Jack is standing with Cain in the shallows of the water, washing him as best he can with the scrap of soap Miss Grimshaw kindly gave him, occasionally glancing over at his father and Arthur. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “You know, I didn’t know you was afraid of dogs, Marston,” Arthur says, “but I can’t say I’m surprised.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “I didn’t either,” John absently rubs at the raw scars on his face again and winces, but doesn’t remove his hand. “I ain’t even afraid. I like dogs. You know I liked that last dog you had. I just didn’t want Jack to get hurt.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “A dog is good for a boy. Especially a boy like Jack."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "Why are you so concerned about making me into the father you weren't?" John snaps. Arthur sighs, leans back on his elbows. It’s not the first time John has played that card, nor will it be the last. Nothing John says ever hurts as much as it rightly should, which is probably, Arthur thinks, why John hurls around should-be-hurtful things to begin with. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "That ain't what this is about. Kid deserves to feel like at least one thing in this world ain’t dangerous."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John sighs and looks up and watches Jack, halfway to knee deep in the water, splashing the dog, whose tail is wagging. The dog leaps up again and playfully pushes Jack down into the water. John stiffens at Arthur’s side and moves to get up, but Arthur grips his arm with one hand and holds him in place. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “He’s fine, John. The dog’s fine, too. Just stay here and watch 'em with me. That dog wouldn’t even bite Micah.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Jack’s laughter rings out as he regains his footing, pulling himself up by the dog’s shoulders. Arthur watches John, confusion playing across his face, lightly touching his own scars - still raw and pink but at least closing up.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Did you hear what Dutch named the dog, though?” Arthur asks quietly. John thinks for a moment and then laughs softly. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Yeah. Always with the theatrics, huh?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “You had to learn it from somewhere.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John shoves Arthur by the shoulder but stays settled at his side. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>---</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John dreams about snarling and yellow teeth at his tent, his own hands reaching out for Jack who is just out of reach, just barely. He startles awake, disoriented in silvery darkness. He starts to reach for Abigail but withdraws his hand from the emptiness as if it burns him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John’s heart is still pounding as he numbly rises and eases out of the tent. He starts walking blindly, taking account of everyone he passes. Arthur's bed is empty - probably on watch - and Dutch's tent is dark and closed, everyone else is sleeping, some snoring softly. His legs are too shaky to step softly but no one stirs.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He finds himself making for Abigail's makeshift tent where she and Jack are tucked under a frayed quilt. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    His feet meet muscle and a dark furry mass starts as John stumbles and falls to his knees, holding back a frightened cry that swells in his chest. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Cain rises to a sit from where he was sleeping outside the tent and looks at John with steady eyes, not frightened nor frightening. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Abigail stirs and it brings him halfway back to the ground where he holds his balance. But Abigail doesn’t wake up, and neither does Jack, safely enveloped in that deep, warm sleep of children. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John scrambles up and looks around the camp - quiet, still, safe. Cain lies down again, returns to resting his head on his paws. John starts walking, hardly feeling his feet touch the ground, toward the light of the fire, low but still going. The ground finally starts to solidify under his feet as he plants himself on the grass with his back against a log. He stares at the flames, licking along a branch charred white like crackling bones, until his eyes lose focus. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Footsteps come toward him on the grass, trying to be quiet. He pulls his vision back to him and looks around in the dark, eyes swimming with residual firelight. It's Arthur, coming back from the edge of camp. John watches him gently rouse Lenny to take watch. He passes the fire, seeming not to notice John at all. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Arthur,” John says softly. Arthur turns to him, unsurprised, and slings his rifle over his shoulder. “Didn’t wanna scare you.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “You look awful scared yourself," Arthur comes to stand above John.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Just…couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Well, you got yourself rattled today.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Sure. Over something dumb."</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Marston, it happens to all of us,” Arthur sighs, “some of us just hide it a little better than others.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “What are you trying to say?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “I ain’t trying to say nothing except that it’s alright, John.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John stares ahead into the trees. Arthur sighs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Do you mind if I sit down?" Arthur asks.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John stares at him for a moment, sees only cool concern in his eyes, glittering in the firelight. Arthur sighs again and sits down next to John against the sun-bleached fallen tree stripped of its bark, the insect trails in its dried flesh visible even in the moonlight. He lays his rifle at his side. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Even through his jacket Arthur is warm at John's side. John leans against his shoulder, ignoring the dull pain in the scars along his face, and stares into the darkness of the treeline over the fire. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "Been a long time since we did this," Arthur says.    </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "Did what?" </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "Sit around all night with your nightmares,” Arthur says, his voice light. “Remember when you hit me in your sleep and split my lip open?"</p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "Are you just gonna mock me all night?” John snaps, though being fifteen and falling asleep on Hosea’s shoulder before a low fire after waking everyone by shouting in his sleep is a painfully inviting memory. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "No, I'm just sayin'. I never minded. Still don't," Arthur slumps down a bit, stretches his legs out. "Get comfortable, Marston, you look a mess." </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    John slides down a bit, still against Arthur's side. He sighs. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    "Thanks, Arthur," John says softly. Arthur grunts, crossing his arms. John rests his head on Arthur's shoulder, something that now feels sacred, something that he hasn't done intentionally in years. He watches the trees warp above the fire. There are no wolves emerging from the jagged shadows. </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i'm on <a href="http://twitter.com/thehubbins">twitter.</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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